New Years Quickie

Hey everyone,

I just wanted to wish all of you happy new years! In ROG it is more of a family event that starts exactly at midnight, so I'm preparing myself for the feast and lots of toasting. I wish I was in america for the American New Years where it's not all about hanging out around your family and toasting, but rather about big parties and lots of booze. jk. I'll post an entry on xmas in ROG soon. Anyway, hope all is well, and happy new year!

HOLLA~!

Yuta

A Thankful Thanksgiving (belated)

This is a late entry for Thanksgiving that I never got around to finishing until last night. It was originally supposed to be posted on November 11, so it’s a little delayed. Enjoy!

I always wanted to be one of those people who could get away with saying corny and cheesy lines like, “life is beautiful.” Maybe I don't say things like that because I don't really believe in those things, or maybe it’s because I am just not cool enough to pull that off. Things like that are only said in movies where the validity of the statement is supported by the soft soundtrack and the perfect lighting. Priests, altruists, and world leaders in Armageddon movies are the only ones that are really allowed to say things like that, I guess. It’s a shame, though, because sometimes things just seem so great that I find myself silently mouthing “life is great,” but I’m always too embarrassed to say it out loud. This weekend was our All Volunteer Conference where we also had our big Thanksgiving Dinner, and the dinner went so well that I am both uncomfortably stuffed and satisfied.

The day that I arrived for the conference was cold and dry—just like a good autumn day. As I walked briskly from the metro station to the Peace Corps office I found it hurt to breathe in because the air had a bite to it, and as I huffed and puffed I noticed that I could breathe out steam from my nose like a dragon. Cars quickly zoomed by ignoring the new lanes painted on the streets, each one having it’s own trail of steam following as if a wispy snake were chasing each vehicle. Taking in the view of the chaotic street, it looked as if every car was just coming from a wedding—translucent cans being dragged behind each car to announce the newly weds—and, put simply, it was chaotic beauty. Arriving at the Peace Corps Volunteer lounge I was greeted by volunteers that had arrived earlier that day, and as volunteers kept arriving it was like a family reunion. “What the hell have you been up to, man?” one volunteer asked me. Overly excited, I didn’t control the volume of my voice very well and yelled “NOT MUCH!”

Conferences are always tiring, and I don't think that anyone is ever really excited to go to a conference where everything is structured which doesn’t leave much time for anything else. Icebreakers, training sessions, coffee breaks; icebreakers, training sessions, lunch; icebreakers, training sessions, dinner: this vicious cycle goes on for days, and inevitably I find myself staring off into space desperately trying not to think about the flipchart in front of me. After surviving through eight hours, I am haunted in my dreams by visions of Peace Corps training. I’m in a vast field filled with giant flowers sprouting flipchart paper, and below these giant flowers are trainers shouting out icebreaking instructions. “Ok,” they shout, “in this next activity all of you will form a circle, hold hands, and try to untangle from this loophole of hell!” As I stare out into this strange land of flipchart hell it starts to rain Nescafe (the premium coffee found in ROG), and as I scurry to the closest flower to find cover I look up toward the sky when, all of a sudden, giant Linder cookies start to fall from the sky like meteorites.

I suddenly wake up to find myself shaking and very upset. As I hold out my hand to try and steady it, I find it hard to focus. Even in my dreams—perhaps my only escape—work has invaded and conquered that sacred territory. I can’t help but wonder if there is no escaping work in the Peace Corps. As “cultural ambassadors” we are always immersed in the culture and our jobs are 24/7, allowing us no escape from the tight grip of Georgian culture. Sometimes the culture grasps me so much that I become Georgian culture. I am no longer efficient in how I work, and I am now full of lazy thoughts on how it is someone else’s fault that I am, in fact, inherently lazy. “It’s that damn weather,” I convince myself as I stroll into work at 11AM.

At the conference, though, there was much to look forward to and work was the last thing on our minds. The country director had ordered 12 turkeys from America, and so we were all in a festive mood because we would be treated to a traditional American Thanksgiving. As we all split up into different groups—food, decoration and drinks—it was pure chaos. Who gets what food, who gets what drink, was there going to be liquor or wine? Emily and I decided to cook together, and because I knew that there would be about twelve apple pies, eight pumpkin pies, and countless other varieties of sweets, I convinced Emily to cook vegetables with me.

Arriving at one of the big bazaars in Tbilisi, it was as if everyone there was gathering food for their own Thanksgiving. Hundreds of colorful stalls made a makeshift labyrinth, and as we walked past each stall the sellers called out to us, “Lemons! Delicious lemons right here!” Each person desperate to sell their produce, we made our way to different stalls selling the same thing asking how much a kilogram of a certain vegetable would cost. Cauliflower, spinach, lettuce, beets, lemons, potatoes, carrots, celery, walnuts, mandarins, and garlic—the selection was endless and as Emily and I debated what to cook, we were mobbed by a group of gypsy children. “Money, money, money,” they yelled as they grabbed our sleeves. As I quickly jerked my head to one of them and glared, I explained to them “Mo’ money mo’ problems!” and yanked my arm away from them. I don’t think they got the Biggie rap reference, but they got the point. Finally, Emily and I decided on our vegetable courses: spinach sautéed in garlic infused olive oil and a sprinkle of lemons juice, and also steamed vegetables with a good bit of citrus juice mixed in for some tartness. After buying 4 kilograms of spinach, 2 heads of cauliflower, 1 kilogram of carrots and beets, and 1 kilogram of potatoes, we made our way to one of the Peace Corps staff’s house to cook.

Because we were going to the US Ambassador’s house before the Thanksgiving dinner, Emily and I had to cook in our professional clothes making cooking a tedious task. Every time the oil would sizzle or when the water would over boil, Emily and I would both dive out of the way as if being shot at. “That was a close one,” we’d say in relief, “we’ve got to watch out for those beets, they’re pretty volatile!” When Emily was finally “shot” by a rogue beet on her white sweater, she cried out in distress and pain, “NOOOOO!” I luckily avoided any conflict with the vegetables, but arriving at Ambassador Teft’s home I looked like I’d been fighting in the trenches for months—sweaty and nasty.

Once the Thanksgiving dinner started, though, all the stress and tension were gone. The decoration committee did a pretty good job by making the conference hall look like a kindergarten class decorated it. Traced hand cutouts were colored and drawn to look like turkeys, and confetti and candles littered the tables. The food was amazing, and there were two tables: one for dessert and the other for the main dishes. Needless to say I ran to the dessert table first, and after piling my dessert plate a mile high with cakes, pies, and pudding I made my way to the main dish table.

-The dessert table:

-The main dish table:


There seem to be two ways to put food on your plate for Thanksgiving, and I find this really interesting. My way is that I like it when my foods touch each other and have a blending effect. My good friend, Eve, apparently does not like her food touching because it is “nasty,” but when I pointed out that sometimes it just tastes better when they are touching she scoffed at my claim. The stuffing mixed in a little bit with the cranberry sauce; the mashed potatoes mixed in a little with the corn and gravy; and even the green bean casserole mixed in a little with the turkey makes for a delicious combination. Eve, I think, is just afraid to expand her palate, and I suppose I can’t blame her because my plate looked pretty chaotic, and, I guess, disgusting.

-Eve’s plate:

-My plate:


An amazing surprise to the evening was when we found out that there would be entertainment that evening. David and Lindsey Roscoe (one of the married couples) are amazing musicians, and they contributed to the night by singing Christmas carols and other great songs. After stuffing my face, I found it difficult to breathe and decided to walk around to talk to other volunteers that weren’t at my table. As the Lindsey sang and David played the guitar—in dim yellow lighting—I walked over to talk to John. We talked about the food, the conference, and other things, and as we sat there listening to the Roscoes sing I commented, “You know, the Roscoes are kind of like the Carpenters.” “Yea…” John said while giving me a weird look, “except the Carpenters were brother and sister, not a married couple.” “Good point,” I said as I coughed to pretend I knew that, “except the brother-sister thing, I think they’re similar. I mean, I’m not saying they’re incestuous or anything!”

-The Roscoes:


Overall the night was great. All the volunteers, lots of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCV), expats, and even a Priest who I briefly thought was Santa Claus showed up. As I climbed up to my room to lie uncomfortably in my hotel bed that night, I thought about how I didn’t really miss out on too much in America this year. I had my turkey, my dessert, and I was even feeling so stuffed that I felt if I took a deep breath I would, quite literally, explode. There are times when living here is definitely tough, but that night in the conference hall with the dim yellow lights and the soft and soothing music playing in the background made me feel like I—like the many central characters in Armageddon movies—was justified to say, “life is great here, and it’s worth all the work we do.”

-John stuffs his face with apple pie hoping that it won’t get trapped in his beard:

-This is how I ate my dessert—no fork necessary:

-Santa Claus (just kidding), me, and Van the country director:

-The conference hall:

-Janet, me and Lei:

-Sara, Helen, me and Emily:

-Lee and I stuffing our faces:

-John tries to seduce the camera:

Uncle Training Part Deux

There is always something to learn from people older than you. I know that when I was younger I was pretty stubborn (actually, I think I still am) and hated it when people gave me advice. I remember the first day I got my learners permit I asked my oldest brother, Yohei, to ride with me so I could get my first taste of teenage freedom. “Ok,” he began to advise as we buckled our seatbelts, “so easy on the gas because it accelerates pretty fast.” Being pompous, stupid and stubborn, I remember thinking, “you’re not the boss of me!” and pushing hard on the gas. As the car shot-gunned into motion—my brother’s knuckles white from fearfully grabbing the armrests—I sped down the road for 10 feet before I slammed on the brakes. “Damn,” I said as if discovering something new, “the car accelerates really fast.” After being alive for 22 years, though, I like to think that I’ve matured and that I take advice openly now. Sometimes—just sometimes though—I even ask for it, and being in the same site with a 38-year-old (although I swear sometimes he’s just out of college) I’ve become somewhat reliant on John’s advice.

John is an asset to have in close proximity because, well, he has encyclopedic knowledge of even the most outlandish and random things. He is the type of person that you would want to be on your team if you were to ever appear on "Family Feud" or the person in the crowd you want to listen to in the "Price is Right!", and his vocabulary is so expansive that playing scrabble with him would only be fun if John were completely inebriated as a handicap. “Xu is a word,” he said one day during a scrabble game. In frustrated defense I instinctively blurted out, “What are you high? How can xu be a word?” But being John, he explained that xu is the currency for Vietnam, which would have probably prompted all of us playing to fling the rest of our scrabble letters up in the air in disbelief had we not been so tired of being beaten. “Triple word score plus double letter points,” he said as he counted his scrabble letters, “let’s see…that puts me at least 50 points ahead of all of you—Boo yah.”

One day as we were hiking through the mountains of Adjara, I discovered that John’s knowledge also expands to the areas of geekdom when he surprised me with his knowledge of Star Trek. “The Klingon language,” he explained one day while talking about the complexity of the Georgian language, “was actually developed by a linguist who took the hardest parts of every language and made up the Klingon language.” Another volunteer who was with us at the time summed up what I was also thinking when he commented, “John, how the hell do you know random sh*t like that?” Later that day when I asked if he thought we’d make it on time to catch the marshutka, I thought he would pull out a 12-sided Dungeons and Dragons die from his pocket to roll the odds, but I was relieved that he did no such thing.

Whether it is about single malt whiskeys, traveling in Thailand, random bits of history, recent music, or even an analysis of the latest political developments in, say, Turkmenistan, John is knowledgeable and is willing to give you his two-cents, knowledge, or advice if ever asked. Sometimes I debate whether to look something I don't know up online or to just call and ask John, but because I don't want to be overbearing or needy I usually stick to non-John sources. It is no wonder, then, that when I was having trouble deciding what I should get my four month old niece for Christmas that I asked John.

“Maybe I’ll get her a bond or one of those adopt-a-Panda things,” I said one day in the office as we were shopping online. “Do you want to be the cool uncle or not?!” he asked, and when I thought about how I’d feel if I got a certificate saying I contributed to a Panda’s life, I thought about the disappointment I’d feel as a nephew. “Right,” I said, “so what do I get her? I really want to be a cool uncle. No, I want to be the coolest uncle.” “Well, last year I bought this magic hat toy for my niece and it was the big hit!” When he showed me the toy online I didn’t understand why anyone would be happy with a toy that has a bunny popping out of it. I mean, it’s just a hat with a toy, right? Apparently John has a long history of getting the hit toy of every season, and I was not going to let this expert of toy selection—perhaps the connoisseur of all things childishly cool and fun—skimp on his knowledge.

As we both browsed the toy section of amazon.com, John would occasionally say “OH! That one looks like a great toy!” but to me it just looked like a heap of cheap plastic that had a twenty-dollar price tag slapped onto it. On one particular toy, he noted that it could be both creative and fun, and I thought about how I lacked the thought process for choosing toys. “This one,” I said as I pointed to the toy on the screen, “it looks like it can be messy and hard to clean up.” “Yuta,” John said patiently, “you’re the uncle, and if you want to be the cool uncle, you have to get them toys that are just fun and cool. Remember, you don't have to clean up, the parents do!” John—with the ever-brilliant observations—had touched on a very good point.

At one point, I suggested that he get a board game like Cranium so that the entire family could play. As we browsed through the many adult Cranium game derivatives, John noted how they were all basically the same. “This one,” he said as he analyzed the product, “the product review doesn't explain how Cranium Hoopla is different from Cranium Hoolabaloo, so I think that they’re just repackaging it without recreating it.” I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself about the situation. Here were two adults sitting huddled around a computer screen reading not about the news or something entertaining, but analyzing the difference between Cranium Hoopla and Hoolabaloo. “No,” John finally stated, “this won’t be a good gift.” Apparently I had a lot to learn about becoming a cool uncle.

I thought about why I didn’t have this uncanny sixth-sense on what children liked, and I quickly came to the conclusion that it was because of the mentality that I had when I was a kid. As the youngest of four, I was always in a hurry to grow up and become an adult (like the rest of my siblings) so I could join in on the conversations about high school and college credits; real estate; or even about politics or religion. Maybe in the rush to become an adult I’d forgotten how to be and, subsequently, think like a kid, and now when it mattered most (I mean, who doesn’t want to be the coolest uncle?) I now had to learn how to be a kid all over again. “Just think about what you wanted when you were a kid,” John said, and as I thought about the things I wanted this Christmas I imagined the type of letter I would write to Santa this year:

"Dear Santa,

This year I think that I’ve been really good. I mean, I joined the Peace Corps and I’m busy saving the world, and if that doesn’t put me on the “nice” list I think that you might need to lower your standards! I’ve put up with people blowing smoke in my face, being harassed by drunken people, walking through cow dung, and sometimes putting up with a hole in the ground as a toilet. Okay, so my occupation as a superhero requires me to do this, but because I feel that I am putting up with a lot, this year’s list is going to be pretty hefty (hope you’ve been saving some money or you have some designer elves!).

First I’d like to start off with some new clothes. I’m not asking for much, just some designer jeans from diesel, seven, or paper denim and cloth. I’d also like a leather jacket (the car coat from Banana Republic—brown leather—in a small), and maybe some new dress shoes from Kenneth Cole. I’d also like some new sweaters—maybe half-zip sweaters in earth tones—in merino wool or cashmere, and also some basics like underwear (calvin klein trunks) and wool socks. I realize that not buying boots before coming to Peace Corps because I thought they were “ugly” was a big mistake, so I think that I’ll need some good boots too. I’ve also been thinking that I’d really like a Patek Philipe or a Cartier watch, but I know that insuring that here will be a hassle so that can be put on the tentative list. Also, the new ipod nano looks really cool, but maybe you can put that in as a stocking stuffer? Some other things that might be noteworthy might be a new subscription to the Economist, Wall Street journal, the New Yorker, or the New York Times.


What’s that? You say that this is all unreasonable for the Peace Corps, and that your factory’s capacity can’t handle making all these toys? Well, Santa, this is the twenty first century and kids will want these kinds of toys so I think it will be reasonable for Peace Corps, and I suggest that you outsource your labor to cut costs and to maximize efficiency. Think synergy, Santa, or you might face fierce competition from other toy manufacturers!

Looking forward to Christmas morning!

Your best friend,

Yuta”

Obviously my tastes have changed since I was a kid and I am clearly out of touch with children, so I thought of a list of things that I enjoyed as a child: Legos, Ninja Turtles, Transformers, Nerf toys, board games, and stuff that looked “gross” (like I had an ooze clock). The problem right now, though, is that I can’t think of what a four-month-old girl would like. Would my niece even know that something is from me? Should I wrap the gift with hundreds of pictures of myself so my niece will see who the coolest uncle is, like an early form of brainwashing? Thinking about all this, I approached John to talk about gift ideas for a four month old. “Stuffed animals,” John said with confidence, “everyone had a favorite stuffed animal when they were a kid!” Thinking back to my childhood, I couldn’t think of a stuffed animal that I was particularly attached to. “But they’re just, like, you know, soft fake animal corpses filled with cotton or down.” Seeing the look of shock on John’s face said it all. “You had a stuffed animal that you were attached to?!” I asked in disbelief. Flabbergasted, John responded, “Of course! I had Snoopy and Woof-woof!” Instantly, I had a picture of 38-year-old John hugging his two prized stuffed animals as he slept and I burst out laughing.

As I inquired more about Snoopy and Woof-woof, John went into detail about how Snoopy’s eye had to be sewn back on at one point because as a child he brought Snoopy with him everywhere. Snoopy and Woof-woof, apparently, were used, abused, and weather-beaten by John’s tough childhood love, but to this day they are still around. The idea that my present could potentially be such a valuable and revered gift made me excited, and so I decided to get my niece a stuffed animal. The only challenge now, though, is determining what kind and what color. Saying that makes me feel like I’m buying an engagement ring, and I realize the absurdity of the situation. John, though, would surely go through this thought process so I see it as necessary to be the coolest uncle. Are there psychological implications in choosing a certain kind of animal as opposed to another? Would getting her a stuffed horse make her want a horse later on in life? But cool uncles don’t worry about the repercussions of the gift, only about the coolness of it, right? Do you get a stuffed animal just because it’s “cute?” I don’t want the stuffed animal that I give her to be a common one like Elmo, but does that mean I have to make it myself? And if I made it myself, wouldn’t the resulting product be so bad that it might give her nightmares? Who ever thought that choosing a gift would be so challenging?

As the clock ticks ever so quickly towards Christmas, I’m afraid that I won’t have enough time to choose a good stuffed animal for my niece. The fact is, though, that she’s just so cute to me that I want to get her the best thing possible, and even if I can’t get something for everyone else, I at least want to get something for my first niece. I’ve come to the conclusion that it is time again to tap my site mate’s encyclopedia-esque brain on determining what kind and what color stuffed animal I should get. My site mate who’s so knowledgeable and never pretentious will come to my aid again to throw me that random fact, that much needed advice, and that well thought out opinion. Sometimes a superhero just needs some help over the simplest things like being a cool uncle.

The Batumi Grinch

“I LOATHE everything about the holiday season,” John the Batumi Grinch said. When asked why, he simply responded in that green and Grinch-like manner by flatly announcing, “I used to work in retail.” I think that behind having a bitter family experience or a death of a loved one during this time, working in retail is probably the most legitimate reason to hate the holiday season, so I was not one to criticize. When I think of what it must be like in America right now, I have visions of crowded shopping malls, lines that stretch for miles, and web servers crashing because of the onset of an insane amount of online traffic. In other words, I have images of chaos and commercialism in full swing, and it’s something that I both love and miss because it’s so, well, different here.

There’s something that feels like a right of passage during the holiday season when you go through the annual ritual of standing in line and complaining about how slow the cashier is, or how the lady in front of you demanded a size smaller in a different color and thinking, “that crazy b*tch should have just gotten it herself!” Going through a rollercoaster of emotions in every store, and feeling somewhat competitive and bitter that the line next to yours is going slightly faster—albeit at an insignificant rate—and getting annoyed that the racks and shelves look like a hurricane ripped through them has become the norm. “Someone should organize these items so we can actually find what we came here for,” we all think in irritation, and all customers will raise their hands in protest when they hear the words “well, that won’t be in until after Christmas.” Hearing the bickering and moaning of a person three people behind you judgmentally say, “can you believe that lady? She’s buying a Bratz doll! I mean, that doll practically guarantees that your little girl will grow up to be a dime store hooker!” is oddly comical in the beautiful setting of a manicured store.

I think that everyone—customers included—cringes when they hear the person in front of the line demand, “Who’s your manager? I need to talk to your manager right now!” When the manager finally emerges—cash register and door keys dangling from his neck—the drama begins:

“What do you mean you don't have the new tickle-me Elmo?!”
“Ma’am, please calm down. It’s just been a busy…”
“I called three days ago and you told me you had it!”
“Its been a busy season, and that is just a really popular…”
”This is unbelievable! What will I tell my daughter on Christmas morning when she sees Burt and Ernie hugging instead of a giggling Elmo?!”

Almost in unison, the entire store hears this and silently mouths “psycho,” and we all proceed to do what we all do best—ignore the hysterical customer. Feeling some sympathy for the poor manager who must be on the verge of cracking, we all feel that we should do something to calm this lady down, but none of us feels quite enough sympathy to defend the manager in the face of this raging lunatic of a customer, so we all look down or pretend to look at an item within reaching distance. I imagine that John’s loathing for the holiday season stems from associating Christmas songs and decorations with pure customer driven anarchy.

All this chaos amid the beautifully decorated department stores with bright colored lights and expertly ornamented Christmas trees has a twisted humor to it, and the traditional music that contrasts so much with the yelling and the bickering even provides an interesting chorus or soundtrack to the shopping experience. This is the traditional holiday season that I think of when I think of home, but it is oh-so-different in Batumi.

Coming into Peace Corps, I never imagined that I’d see Christmas trees and holiday decorations around town. I thought that since ROG is a heavily orthodox Christian nation I would see some decorations inside homes (although orthodox Christmas isn’t until January 7), but never did I imagine Christmas decorations to be all around town. Walking to the office at night to finish up some work a couple days ago, I saw the park illuminated with red, green, white, and blue lighting on all the trees—even palm trees. A 50-foot Christmas tree was also being erected, and I couldn’t help but get giddy and excited over this new development. It was like my own third-world Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, and I couldn’t help but feel incredibly fortunate. As I strolled down one of the major streets I noticed that huge snowflakes were dangling from the phone lines and were glowing in the empty nighttime streets, and while listening to Christmas music on my mp3 player made it feel like I was back in the states.

Even on the outskirts of town the Christmas decorations adorn the streets. On one of my nighttime runs along the promenade, I saw that one of the streets was decked out with radiating Rudolphs (do Georgians even know who Rudolph is?), snowflakes, giant snowmen, and even the fountain was glowing red and green. I guess Hanukkah and Kwanza aren’t big here yet, but maybe those traditions will catch on in a couple of years. Some of the stores have even begun to sell Christmas trees, decorations, and ornaments. Since I live on a paltry stipend, though, I don't really have any extra cash to spend on these items so I just idly stare at them from the sidewalk, like a fat kid longingly staring into a candy store window. There is also rumor of the Georgian Santa Claus coming into town to take pictures with children—I plan to be there.

There is no holiday season shopping rush like there is in America (probably because unemployment rate here is around 60-70%), so window-shopping is a different but pleasant experience here. Except at the corporately run McDonalds and Marriott in Tbilisi, there are, of course, really no glitzy decorations you would expect in America, but it’s interesting how easy it is to adjust to that. Just listening to music will get me in the holiday mood, and inviting other PCVs over will help too. Just this weekend one PCV came to visit and we listened to Christmas songs and baked brownies (possibly the easiest and best dessert EVER), and for a brief moment I didn’t feel like I was ROG and it was great.

Most, if not all, TEFL volunteers have been teaching their kids Christmas carols, so certain songs are off-limits from being sung or even mentioned, but this leaves a lot of contemporary Christmas songs that are too complicated for beginning English learners to sing so it’s OK. “I swear if I hear ‘Deck the Halls’ one more time I’m going to snap,” one volunteer said while rhythmically massaging her temples, “and they just keep singing it like a broken record e-v-e-r-y-d-a-y!” “I’ll get the aspirin,” I told her as I tried to calm her down, “and maybe some lemon tea too…that’s calming, right?” Some PCVs are so sick of certain songs that even catchy Christmas lyrics become idle threats. “And so when this kid kicked me in leg in the middle of the song, I just wanted to be like, ‘I’ll jingle bell you if you do that again!’” Once again I reached for the aspirin, but this time to help with the pain in her leg.

Maybe it’s a love/hate relationship with the holiday season. In America, we all have to go through that painful process of gift idea, selection, and finally buying, but in the Peace Corps I guess it’s the painful process of being over exposed to catchy Christmas songs that make you want to break a desk if you hear that tune one more time. But every year when all is said and done, I think it’s funny how we realize that it isn’t really about the gift or the teaching of a catchy tune as it is about trying to get together with your loved ones on Christmas. (I swear I’m not just saying this because no one back home will get a gift from me this year. Although, truth be told, living on a stipend doesn’t leave much surplus for Christmas shopping…but if you are sending a Christmas gift, don't be discouraged to send something!  ) So this year, even though I’m really far from my family and friends back home, I plan to spend Christmas day (the right one on December 25) with friends in the capital. No Christmas trees, just Christmas songs, and no Christmas decorations, just Christmas spirits, and maybe I’ll have enough superhero convincing power to get the Grinch of Batumi to come along too.